The room is silent.
Not the sharp silence of anger. Not the hollow quiet of abandonment. Something softer. Something harder to ignore.
I sit on the edge of the bed, my hands resting loosely on my knees. The mattress dips softly beneath my weight. Beside me, a careful distance away, Silas sits with his eyes lowered, his notebook and pencil resting in his lap.
The sheets between us are rumpled—twisted into chaos, pulled loose from the corners during our chase, our laughter, whatever that was.
A pillow lies on the floor, pale against the dark marble, tilted where it fell during the chase. Evidence of something I still don't fully understand.
I can't believe I joined him.
Can't believe I let myself run. Let myself laugh. Let myself pin him to this very bed, his wrists caught in my hands, his breath warm against my chin.
Like we were children.
